You Already Know
by Valhalla's Dog
Summary: John can't get Sherlock's face out of his mind. He never wants to see him like that again.
1. Chapter 1

John let out a long sigh as he fell back into his chair. It had been a long day. Needless to say, he hadn't planned on having his weight in bombs strapped to his chest. Standing by the doorway Sherlock was busy shrugging off his jacket while Mrs. Hudson asked a few worried questions about their well-being.

"We're fine Mrs. Hudson, really. I'm sure John will be well enough once he's had his tea."

"Well alright dear; shall I bring you up some biscuits John?" John nodded his head and the petite woman scurried out of the room, wringing her hands in her blouse.

Sherlock had by then slipped of his shoes to reveal pristine black socks and was now making his way to sit across from John. With an amount of grace that he shouldn't be capable of, he plopped himself down into the chair and folded his hands into a steeple beneath his chin.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock studied his blogger, noticing the slight slump in his posture, the heavy breathing, and the way the pressure on his left foot was wavering—his psychosomatic limp acting up. Of course John wasn't alright, but Sherlock was getting better at social cues and etiquette and recognized now was not the time to show off.

John looked up leaning on his arm to stare at the consulting detective. He forced a nod before retreating back into his thoughts. He wasn't shaken by the bombs that had been strapped to his chest, it wasn't the first time he'd been in such close proximity to them after all. No, John Watson was shaken by the look on Sherlock Holmes' face as he stepped into the pool room.

Oh, it was a fleeting look, that was for sure, but it was ingrained into his memory. That look of complete shock and utter betrayal; and if John hadn't been looking so intently he might have missed the aching in his eyes. John never wanted to see the man look that way again. Sherlock was not hurt and shock, he was clever deductions and breakneck logic. He was a step ahead, not a step behind. When John entered the pool room, the man waiting for him was not Sherlock; that's what had John shaken.

Sherlock said nothing as his blogger stared at the wooden floor. To be honest he wouldn't have been able to say anything. For a man who knew so much, Sherlock knew very little. Standing up, Sherlock walked over to the mantelpiece to twist the skull around in the palm of his hand. He remembered the relief and horror he felt when john had opened his jacket to reveal the explosives. Relief that John had not been Moriarty, and horror that John had been put in danger.

Now that they were back in their flat at 221B Baker Street all Sherlock felt was idiocy. Of course John wasn't Moriarty! The fact that it even crossed his mind for a nanosecond was absurd! The two men couldn't be farther apart than a shark and a butterfly.

As Sherlock steeped in his thoughts, Mrs. Hudson came into the room with a tray of tea and biscuits. "There you go boys," Mrs. Hudson placed the tray on the coffee table and patter John on the shoulder, "Feel better John."

John nodded noncommittally and plucked a biscuit from the tray as their landlady left the room. Sherlock picked up the two mugs from the tray and poured a good amount of tea into both of the before dumping a heavy amount of sugar in his own and handing John's to him black. John smiled at Sherlock appreciatively and sipped at his drink absently. The two sat in silence as they finished of the biscuits, both a little shaken from the night's events.

"I'm going to head off to bed now," John said quietly. He hadn't spoken since Lestrade had shown up at the pool, and hearing his voice shocked him slightly, as if he had forgotten how it sounded.

Sherlock nodded and John stood up and retired to his bedroom. Sherlock sighed and slumped to the floor. He was too tired to care about the state his back would be in in the morning. With a groan he rolled over onto his stomach and dozed off on the horribly uncomfortable rug.

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	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Sherlock indeed woke up with a horribly sore back. Sighing he stood up and went to the kitchen to make tea and breakfast. John woke up not long after and joined his flatmate at the table which for once had no lab notes or chemicals on it. John yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes before popping a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. He hadn't slept well as was to be expected. He wondered if Sherlock had slept better. Then again Sherlock rarely slept.

Sherlock stared silently at his companion. His eyes were bloodshot from most likely crying judging by the faint tear streaks he noticed; this meaning he hadn't washed his face since, as the tears had washed the dirt away in their path. But John was a clean man, he wouldn't normally leave his face unwashed before he had breakfast; this indicated his mind was preoccupied with something else, not unlikely the incident at the pool. He was still wearing the same jumper he had worn last night and the wool around his upper arms was slightly bent out of shape; likely at some point in the night John had clutched himself rather tightly, most likely while crying. Over all Sherlock deduced that John had broken down when he retired to his room the night before.

Sherlock furrowed his brows and stood up to walk to the sofa. John looked up from his breakfast and cocked a brow of his own as Sherlock picked up his throw blanket and walked towards him, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock draped the blanket around John's shoulders before sitting back down to drink his tea, "For shock."

John smiled a little and looked down at his plate, "Thanks."

Sherlock nodded and winced slightly; he really shouldn't have slept on the floor.

John noticed and gave him a questioning gaze, "What's wrong?"

"Just a sore back. Nothing important," Sherlock waved it off.

"I could help you know. I am a doctor," John smiled lightly and Sherlock held his breath.

Sherlock had always loved when John smiled. He was still worried about the night before and how it had effected his blogger, but he was glad that he seemed to be getting better. "I am fine, thank you John. But how are you?"

John shook his head, "I'm fine too. I've been around bombs before. I admit they had never been strapped to my chest before, but yeah, I'm okay." Sherlock was silent. "I'm just glad to be out alive I suppose."

Sherlock raised his brow, "Then why were you crying so hard last night that you dug your nails into your upper arms?"

John stared for a minute, "How did you… never mind. Doesn't matter."

Sherlock finished up his tea and made his way to the couch, leaving his dishes on the table. John sighed and placed his and Sherlock's dishes in the sink before joining him in the living room.

John frowned as he took in the way Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch, "That's going to make your back worse sitting like that. Come on, let me help."

Sherlock looked up art John as the doctor held out his hand. He shook his head and got up. John rolled his eye and motioned him to follow. He complied and if anyone asked he would deny the shock he felt when they entered John's bedroom and the soldier had him sit on his bed. "John?"

"I told I was going to help. I may be a bit rusty, but I learned a bit of massage therapy back in med school. Take off your shirt and lie down on your stomach." John smiled lightly. John wasn't sure himself what he was doing. All he knew was that Sherlock was hurting and John had felt nauseous to think about it.

Sherlock studied John's face to try and figure out what he was thinking, but eventually just complied. John rubbed and kneaded at the tense muscles and Sherlock sighed happily as the tension rolled out of him like waves. "Mmm, John you're very good at this."

John smiled a little, "Thanks. Harry used to say it was my calling."

Sherlock sighed again, "I wouldn't say that much of it."

John chuckled, "Always the gentleman. After I'm done we should go do something. Keep you from getting bored. I can't stand to watch another episode of Maury with you."

Sherlock nodded as his blogger moved to the other side of his back, "What did you have in mind?"

"Not sure. Would you be interested in seeing a play? I heard that Hamlet is playing at London Theatre. That's something you could relate too isn't it?" John chuckled.

Sherlock laughed a little as well, "I suppose that would be suitable."

"The theatre it is then."


End file.
